Herbert looked sober. The squire might not be right but certainly he had the power to carry his point and that power he was certain to exercise.
“Will you give my mother and myself a little time to consult what is to be done?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the squire, feeling that he had carried his point. “I might refuse, of course, but I wish to be easy with you and therefore I will give you till half past twelve. I will be back at that time.”
He took his cane and left the house.
His reference to the post office reminded Herbert of the letter he had in his pocket for his mother.
“Here's a letter for you, mother,” he said.
“A letter! Who can it be from?”
“It's postmarked at Randolph,” said Herbert.
“Perhaps it's from Aunt Nancy,” suggested the widow. “I don't know anyone else in Randolph that would be likely to write to me.”
She opened the envelope and uttered a cry of surprise as two bills dropped out and fluttered to the floor.